


Eyes of Wood

by jotunblood



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood Drinking, Established Relationship, M/M, Master/Servant, pseudo-mythology, some runes. a spirit. and some tribes that have no canonical basis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 22:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4076059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jotunblood/pseuds/jotunblood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Mairon reminds his Master of the pleasure of the slow, subtle siege-- both on the battlefield and off it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes of Wood

“The trick, My Lord, is to meet the Men on their field.”

Mairon opened his palms, holding their contents above the bowed crown of his head for inspection. The stones, each hewn from a larger slab of obsidian and lovingly cut to gleaming smoothness, were still warm from the workshop, the glassy dust from softening their edges still caught in the pads of his fingers and lungs. They were his newest works, and of them he couldn’t be more proud, given what he’d undergone to make their creation possible.

He’d spent the past month in the slopes of the North, slinking disguised between scattered tribes of Men in search of anything that might win his Master new troops. It had been dull work. The homes of even the most high-standing members were barren and cloth-made, and visiting their forges under the guise of a travelling smith offered no relief. They were makeshift things, ready to be abandoned at the change of the season: nothing to the glory of his workshop in the belly of Angband. Still, he’d kept to it. To the tribes he’d been sent, and among them he intended to stay until some intelligence worthy of the term revealed itself.

Luckily, he’d always been persuasive. Within weeks he gained the trust of enough officials to be personally introduced to the only Man in whose house all the tribes met in unity: their High Priest. A private meeting was granted to him the night of a feast, and in it information came in spades.

Quickly as he could without raising suspicion, Mairon abandoned the tribes and returned to the fortress, eager for his Master’s echoing halls and the bubbling heat of his forges. Robes still dark with the mud of his travels, he’d set to work lest the clarity of the Priest’s descriptions fade and his designs suffer for it. The information was far too good to waste. 

And so it was that, hours after his return and lesser time still since the road had been washed from his body, he came to kneel on the steps of his Master’s wrought throne, sore hands proudly cupping the fruit of his labor.

“With these,” he continued, “the tribes will do better than fall before you: they will join you gladly, and fill the gaps in our troops with unmatched loyalty. They are truly a weapon worthy of your hand.”

Grin unchecked, Mairon raised his gaze, gold painted eyes skating up the length of his arms. The journey had been uncomfortable, but the toil would be worth it when he caught his Master’s eyes and found them--

Glassy. Disinterested. Absent, even. 

The plain between Mairon’s brows furrowed. He was knelt between his Master’s knees, hands and golden nails still scuffed from his travels but holding what was surely his most ingenious creation to date, and Melkor looked as if he would rather be locked in his own dungeons.

“Master,” he began again, throat taut with confusion or annoyance, he knew not which, “perhaps you did not hear. I am presenting you with the key to nearly two thousand fresh Men.” 

Melkor slumped in his throne, one knee slipping to graze Mairon’s road bruised wrist. “So you say.”

He fixed half-mast eyes on the stones, attention lazy and unimpressed. Bored-- the Ainu looked positively bored. Would it not result in flogging, Mairon would have growled his frustration. Instead, he fixed Melkor with a look of his own: eyes narrow daggers, though head still ducked low enough to provide a semblance of submission.

“My work displeases you.” 

It wasn’t a question. Given how thinly veiled his Master’s disinterest was, he doubted Melkor expected one. Over the years he had grown close to his Lord, a fact that afforded him great freedom within the fortress and in his command outside it. Unfortunately, it also resulted in this: personal, almost stinging displays of disappointment in Mairon’s efforts.

Melkor’s careless knee returned, contact rough enough to milk ache from Mairon’s bones and jostle the stones. They clinked glassy in his palms, swallowing the light that haloed the peaks of Melkor’s crown.

“They are pretty, certainly.” His voice came husky and slow, noncommittal. Had Mairon not heard the tone directed a thousand times at captains in counsel meetings, reading the displeasure in it would have been impossible. “But I sent you North to discern how best our arms and strategy might be applied on that front, not to learn local craft.”

Mairon shook his head sharply, copper hair already working loose from its hasty braid. “This _is_ strategy. My time among the tribes has convinced me that nothing is better suited for subduing them.”

Melkor arched a thick brow, blank face breaking into a sneer as his attention on the stones sharpened from disinterest to disbelief.

“I fail to see how a handful of pebbles will win me soldiers.”

Mairon barked a laugh. Melkor’s attention cut from his hands to his face at the careless sound, but Mairon didn’t wither under it. He scooted closer, knees thumping against the ledge of the next step.

“There are better ways of gaining soldiers than slaying half of them in battle, and wounding some of our own besides. Don’t play the simple brute, Master. You know as well as I the merits of subtlety.”

Melkor withheld his response, and it was all Mairon could do not to buckle under his silent, heavy gaze. It was difficult to know when he had gone too far. On some occasions his Master welcomed a sharp tongue; on others, he wouldn’t tolerate the most accidental eye contact. Given the already poor reception of his work, Mairon supposed it would have been wise to err on the side of the latter. His Master’s anger, even towards him, could be hard and terrible.

His Lord’s hand lifted from the armrest, and for a moment Mairon was certain he would be struck. The tips of Melkor’s fingers shined with sharp, sturdy armor-- the Maia had crafted the pieces himself, and knew their bite intimately--, and Mairon steadied himself for the blow, hoping if nothing else not to be struck to the ground several feet below. The cuts would heal quickly enough, but the shame of that fall would linger.

The motion diverted, flowing into a gesture of indulgence at the last. Mairon managed to school his flinch, but only just.

“You have an hour, imp.” Melkor dropped his hand to the armrest, the armored tips scratching against it. “Illuminate me.”

Mairon covered the last of his unease with a breathy laugh. “As you wish.”

Lowering his gaze in deference, Mairon rose to his feet and backed down the steps of the throne. Good though the position might be for private discussion, it was no place for displaying new works. Everything he made for his Master-- weapons, gauntlets, the hooked armor on his fingers-- had been presented to him on the throne room’s table. It was a custom Mairon had insisted upon since his arrival, and one that Melkor never failed to relent to. It was a mild powerplay, but a comforting one all the same; given his precarious position, he’d take all the high ground he could win.

“The tribes of the North,” he began, rounding the table to face the throne, “have a curious legend, one their High Priest saw fit to share with me in my final days there. It’s from this legend that my inspiration sprang. If you will, My Lord?”

Mairon curled a gold-tipped finger in invitation and set to arranging the stones. He didn’t wait for Melkor’s response. The Ainu would come or he wouldn’t. Regardless, Mairon had been charged with explaining himself. The firmer his resolve, the better.

Melkor’s decision didn’t come until Mairon looked up again from the table. With the full set lined neatly along the edge nearest the throne, their carved faces on display, Mairon returned his attention to his Master. He still sat, knees splayed and attention wandering like a spoiled prince holding court. He radiated stubbornness, but Mairon knew well enough how to temper that. Sighing, he cocked his head in a final question, haphazard braid falling from his shoulder to swing by his elbow.

Melkor’s eyes tracked the tumble, fingers flexing around the iron rest. It was a dirty trick. His Master suffered few weaknesses to be known, but the Maia knew how fond Melkor was of his hair-- the feel of it, its bounce and billow in response to the slightest movement, how the torchlight splintered against the fire of it. A well-timed toss could soften the foulest mood.

Breath hissing through his teeth, Melkor rose to his full height and descended the stairs of his throne, stalking to the edge of the prepared table. His slow steps rang heavy and hollow in the empty room, a sound that Mairon had grown to find comforting. 

The Maia breathed deep, savoring his mighty Lord’s submission, then continued.

“The tribes not only share a language and writing system, but also a separate set of ceremonial letters. According to legend, this second set was taught to them by a visiting spirit. The spirit decreed that the alphabet thereafter be the only one used in temples, to serve as a reminder of the reality of power beyond their understanding.”

“I suppose this is it,” Melkor supplied.

Mairon lifted his gaze from where it sat reverent on the work of his hands, gauging his Master’s mood. Melkor’s grip was strong on either edge of the table, body hunched to make a close study of the display. He looked interested enough, despite the coolness of his tone, eyes hopping like water bugs from stone to stone behind strands of loose hanging hair. Mairon’s knuckles ached to knot in the dark locks, to peel them back and see clearly the keen fire of his Master’s eyes as he appraised the stones. 

“It is,” Mairon answered finally. “That, however, is not where the legend ends.” 

“No?” Melkor’s attention drifted from the stones, his budding interest scattering with it. He sounded bored again. “Get on with it, then. Time is passing.”

The Maia reached for the first stone, the pads of his fingers brushing his Master’s bare thumb. Melkor’s attention flicked to the point of contact, but the touch didn’t linger. It diverted quickly, leaving nothing but a smear of obsidian dust on the Ainu’s pale joint. A small thing, but no accident-- Mairon’s movements where his Master was concerned were regimented, a fact Melkor knew well.

Fizzling with the thrill of the touch, Mairon’s fingers found their true target and wrapped around the stone.

“The spirit crafted a set of letter stones small enough to be carried, and made another demand.”

Lifting the stone to eye level, Mairon called for his Master’s full attention. Melkor straightened in response, pulling his hands to the center of the table so his fingers splayed between the remaining obsidian. 

He didn’t wipe the smudge from his skin, and the crackle in Mairon’s fingers melted and ran like hot metal, slow drip settling in his gut.

“The tribes must elect one amongst their number to guard the letter stones.” A flick of the wrist, and black stone burned silver in the light of Melkor’s crown. “A task of great importance, you understand. The loss of the smaller reference stones might eventually result in the bastardization of the alphabet. To prevent that, one Man must give his life, and by extension the lives of his sons and all sons beyond, in service of the stones.”

Melkor snorted, breath blowing dragon hot. “Perhaps this spirit could have done the tribes greater service by choosing other Men to pester. Servitude hardly seems a fair trade.”

“Were that the extent of the bargain, My Lord, I would agree. But our wandering spirit was no miser. In exchange for the service, it offered to bestow upon each guardian secret knowledge of the stones: the hidden meaning of the markings, and how to interpret them. Whoever accepted the position would gain for himself and his successors a direct line to the spirit, and be able to act as Priest and Diviner for all the tribes.” 

Mairon turned his attention to the stone in hand, rolling it experimentally over his knuckles. Its beetle blackness stood sharp against soft brown skin, the shadows its tumbling cast dimming the shimmering lacquer on his nails.

“As you can imagine,” he continued, not looking up from the stone, “the role was filled quickly and the line of High Priests established. I’m told it hasn’t broken yet, which is fortunate. The tribes no longer find each other agreeable; instating a new line would not be as clean a process the second time around.”

Long moments passed, the quiet of the throne room broken only by the clink of obsidian against nail. It wasn’t unusual; his Master often spent the minutes following Mairon’s reports in silence. If asked, Melkor would say that it was to fully digest the information before discussing. For his own part, Mairon thought it was at least partly for the pleasure testing his patience.

“Impressive as I find your attention to history,” Melkor said, relieving the anxious prickle working its way up Mairon’s back, “I asked how these trinkets would bring me the low North. I don’t see how your mind connects one to the other.”

“Then allow me to make it plain.” Mairon palmed the stone, returning his attention to his Master. “Long centuries have passed since the spirit’s visit, and there is no memory of its face or name. All that remains is the belief that letter stone divination is an art that only two can practice: the current Priest, and the spirit from whom the skill originated. With the aid of these _trinkets_ \--”

The word passed his lips like a curse, but Mairon doubted Melkor noticed. His back had straightened to full attention, and his eyes were free of their earlier, lazy disinterest. The Ainu, it seemed, had picked up the trail.

Finally. 

“--I will teach the craft to you.”

With a flick of his wrist, Mairon tossed the stone, trusting it to catch like a fly between his Lord’s fingers. Melkor didn’t disappoint. He squeezed it between armored tips, holding it up in the light of his crown like an errant cherry pit, then let it roll into his palm. It rested in the deep creases there, dark as pestilence against shell pale skin, and he examined the stone with far more reverence than before.

“Mairon,” he breathed, brushing the obsidian’s carved face with the naked skin beneath hooked silver. “This, _you_ …”

The pulse below Mairon’s jaw fluttered, beating dizzy. This was the reaction he’d hoped for: his Master’s mouth slack with wonder, attention burning holes in the work of the Maia’s hands, and later, stars willing, the Maia himself. The nights abroad had been long and cold, and his bones ached for more than rest.

But Melkor’s brows were furrowed again, full lips drawn to a hard line, and the bird beneath Mairon’s skin quieted its wings.

“If he truly believes a spirit charged his bloodline with the protection of the stones, the Priest would not have parted with this knowledge easily. If at all.” Melkor laid the stone in its rightful place at the head of the line. “Tell me, you didn’t--”

“The Priest lives,” Mairon interjected, swatting away his Master’s concern, “and is none the wiser.”

He canted his hips, and didn’t miss the brief downturn of Melkor’s eyes. The kiss of attention burned bone barely hidden beneath thin fabric, and the ghost of Mairon’s racing pulse settled in his throat once more.

Melkor scrapped his tongue over a jagged eyetooth, lifting his gaze as if it were a heavy thing. 

“How then?”

Mairon shrugged, weaving a long finger through the end of his braid. “Men have spells strong enough to protect their secrets from magicians of their own kind, but his tricks were nothing to me.” 

Deliberately, with perhaps more snap in his hips than necessary, he rounded the table to stand at his Master’s side. Melkor’s eyes darkened, but remained stubbornly ahead. Mairon dared a smirk, certain his Lord’s attention was devoted too tightly to appearing disinterested in his movements to notice it. 

“As he spoke of the stones’ history,” Mairon continued, voice dipping low now that he stood near enough to feel Melkor’s heat, “his mind was messy with memories of his own dealings with them. All in the forefront of his thought, ready to be leafed through like the pages of a book. Taking what I wanted was no challenge.”

He shifted his weight, teasing the edge of his Master’s vision. Melkor sniffed pointedly but refused the bait.

“Your Sight is much improved. I can remember a day when cracking through an orc’s mental defenses left you sweating.”

“As can I. It is merely one of many talents that have flourished in my… _servicing_ of you.”

Melkor’s resolve broke at that and he turned to face the Maia, black hair whipping his neck. Mairon moved quickly, avoiding the heat of the knowing glance with a side step and pressing his chest to the back of his Master’s shoulder. Melkor went rigid under the contact. Face frozen in profile, he tracked Mairon’s movements as best he could from the corner of a suddenly wide eye.

“Easy, Master,” Mairon said softly, laying one hand on the Ainu’s tight muscled bicep and the other on the table. 

It had been a bold move. Ever was his Master wary of treachery. His mind had been slipping since the theft of the Silmaril, tripping itself over half-imagined interactions and paranoia. In the last few years it had worsened in earnest, and Mairon wasn’t so sure the jewels weren’t to blame. His Lord’s desire was a poison thing, threatening to turn him against allies over the barest shadow of suspicion. 

More than once, Mairon had found himself under fire; the history of the world was written, after all, in the blood of those betrayed by their right hand. Even in their tenderest moments (and his Master, despite himself, could be tender) the Maia might get a blade against his throat over the smallest misunderstanding. Moving so quickly out of Melkor’s sight was unwise on the best of days, but now, after a long stay in enemy halls…

His Master breathed in, shoulders flexing slow against Mairon’s chest, and his attention turned to the table. His own hand came to rest splinters away from the Maia’s, and he allowed the thumb still marked with obsidian dust to scrape against Mairon’s nail. 

“Tell me what you have in mind.”

His voice was still warm with the sparks from Mairon’s recent languid display, the muscles of his arm and back jumping in interest under the Maia’s touch. 

Mairon breathed easier in the face of his Master’s second, more intimate submission, and rewarded it with a firmer press of his body to Melkor’s own.

“A bloodless siege, My Lord. One the tribes have no hope of withstanding.”

He shifted his hand, nail dragging a red path over the pale skin beneath it, and laid it over his Master’s own. It was dainty in comparison, each finger a segment too short to fully cover Melkor’s and thin enough to be crushed should the Ainu choose to flip their position and squeeze. But the touch, like the others, was allowed; the only evidence that its wispy weight didn’t go unnoticed was the stroke of Melkor’s knuckles against Mairon’s rough palm.

“Once you have been properly instructed, you will descend like fog into the High Priest’s home. You will call him by name, and demand proof of the stones’ safety.” 

Mairon flexed his fingers, nails cutting half-moons into his Master’s knuckles. Melkor pressed up into the touch, and the Maia continued.

“He will doubt you at first; only a fool wouldn’t. But if you are fully prepared-- and I have no intention of sending you to battle unprepared-- you will fail no test he can think to give. The names of the stones will roll smoothly from your tongue. There will be no question you cannot answer, no image you cannot recreate and decipher on demand.” 

A squeeze to Melkor’s bicep, a shallow roll of his hips against the hard bone of the Ainu’s own. Melkor relented, allowing himself to be pressed forward and trapped between unforgiving wood and the bubbling heat between Mairon’s thighs. It was an intoxicating and rare treat for Mairon to be indulged this way-- apparently, his Master had mourned his absence nearly as much as the Maia had.

“And then?” Melkor asked, voice rough with the froth of his want.

Mairon pressed his lips like a brand to his Master’s shoulder blade.

“Then the Priest will have to believe that the fabled spirit has returned, and the tribes will be as clay in your hands. The tides of countless battles have been turned due to a letter stone divination in the past. Armies have been raised because of the fear certain stones--” Mairon dragged his Master’s hand towards a stone of ill-omen, knocking the metal of his hooked armor against it-- “can inspire. Once you have the Priest’s trust, your counsel will be as unquestionable as that of the letter stones.”

“So,” Melkor said, reverently tracing the obsidian’s carved face, “if I say the tribes must march--”

“They will do it.” Mairon pulled his Master’s hand back to the edge of the table, meeting only the slightest resistance. “Apply yourself now, and in scant seasons our troops be reinforced and our territory doubled, all without the loss of a single Orc.”

Melkor’s shoulders rose and fell, breath leaving his body in a thin shudder. “Once again, I am reminded of your worthiness as right hand.”

“My Lord will submit himself to tutoring, then?”

“I will.” A laugh crackled deep in Melkor’s chest, buzzing feather light and teasing against the Maia’s ribs. “But not, I suspect, without first being charged some fee.”

Mairon affected a pout, coloring his voice with it. “You would deny your loyal servant his due?”

“I would deny you nothing I rightly owe,” his Master said, serious despite his teasing lilt. “Whether what you have in mind falls into that category remains to be seen.”

“I assure you it’s nothing you aren’t already eager to give,” Mairon near purred, neck stretched to bury the words in the shell of Melkor’s ear.

His hand, which had taken to tracing circles on the bones of his Master’s wrist, slid down the slope of Melkor’s own, coming to rest around an armored finger. Mairon gripped it softly, mapping its length with a slow, deliberate stroke that milked a jealous roll from Melkor’s hips.

“Unless you found someone to fill my role while I was away, of course. Gothmog, perhaps?”

Melkor scoffed, too breathy to be properly scornful. “Fishing for compliments is an ugly sport. It doesn’t become you.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do.” Melkor hissed as Mairon thumbed the tender pad below hooked metal, the touch stoking embers of a memory: wicked fingers wrapped tight around flesh tenderer still. “It would please you to hear me say that your company is irreplaceable.”

“Is it not?”

The rumble of his Master’s snarl echoed through Mairon’s chest.

“Mind your mouth, imp.”

Mairon chuckled, and before his Master could reproach him pressed his thumb hard into the armor and dragged it along the cutting edge. The skin parted with a pop, hot blood welling like water, like the dewy sweetness of impending release. It was metallic and heady, the smell teasing another, kinder growl from the Ainu.

Slowly, allowing Melkor’s eyes to track its path, Mairon raised the dripping wound to his Master’s lips, darkening the rosy pout with a smear of red.

“And you, yours.”

His Master groaned, wrapping greedy lips tight around the offering. Hollowing his cheeks, he descended slow to the base of the cut, widening it with a questing tongue. The wound worked wider, coaxing a hitching whine from the Maia. At the sound, the hand that Melkor had kept resolutely on the tabletop latched on to Mairon’s wrist, grip white-knuckled and threatening the bone beneath it. 

Mairon didn’t struggle against it. Relaxing, he let his thumb be drawn deeper into his Master’s mouth by the Ainu’s punishing hold. His pulse was beating heavy in the cut, its throb falling steady against the velvety wetness of Melkor’s lips.

“What say you, My Lord?” The words tumbled quaking from Mairon’s lips, and he stroked his thumb over his Master’s burning tongue in the hopes of finding solid ground. “Will my fee be paid?”

Melkor nipped at the wound in response, taking spilt blood in greedy tonguefuls, and through a moan spiking sharp Mairon couldn’t help but grin.

His Master hadn’t truly answered yet, but he liked his chances.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I get distracted by background world building and throw in a million non-canonical things. Either way, these two trash lords are awful and I want 12 of them.


End file.
